


i've been running with the wolves to get to you

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, You've been warned, pretty incesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: Bran returns to Winterfell before Jon can be summoned to Dragonstone and reveals the truth of Jon's parentage. Shunned by the Northerners, Jon decides to leave Winterfell and unite with the only other living Targaryen.





	i've been running with the wolves to get to you

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Jonerys Valentine’s Week on tumblr: Day 6, Actually Incest. Just a fun, slightly fucked up one-shot. Forgive any continuity issues or grammatical errors.

Bran’s revelation haunted him, burrowing into his brain like a worm wriggling through soft mud. **  
**

_You’re not a bastard, Jon. You’re Aegon Targaryen. Your mother was Lyanna Stark, and your father, Rhaegar Targaryen._

Bitterness and resentment followed, growing slowly like weeds until he was choking on them. He despised them all: Rhaegar and Lyanna for the havoc they’d wreaked on his life and the kingdom—and perhaps Ned Stark most of all, for a lifetime of deceit and trickery.

Jon Snow would’ve sooner forgotten the truth, buried it in the crypts alongside his mother’s bones and all her other secrets and lies. But he should’ve known the truth has a way of finding the light, every time.

Littlefinger, Jon guessed, whispering his little tales, playing his little games while he pulled the strings of every puppet around him. Sansa had probably confided the news in Lord Baelish, though whether out of concern or spite, Jon couldn’t say for sure; he’d seen the way she’d looked at him after the reveal: wary and distrustful. No one wanted a Targaryen ruling Winterfell, not the sole living daughter of Ned Stark, and certainly not his bannermen.

So they stripped Jon of the title of King in the North and named Sansa the Lady of Winterfell. And he was all but exiled from the North—shunned by the men who’d previously fought side by side with him, men he had killed for, men he’d nearly died for.

If he did not belong in Winterfell, then so be it. He would sail south to Dragonstone, to what had been the ancestral seat of his family, where the only other surviving Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, had recently returned after years in Essos.

Ser Davos was insistent on going with him, but Jon sent him home to Cape Wrath to see his wife and sons again. A man who is no king has no need for a Hand, after all. Still, Davos captained the ship that took Jon to Dragonstone as a final farewell.

The journey took weeks, first on land then on sea. Davos anchored the ship miles off the island so as not to invite suspicions of an attack, and after wishing his former Hand good fortune, Jon rowed a small boat to shore. Bone-tired and wet, he dragged the boat out of the water onto the sandy beach—and was promptly seized by queerly dressed, heavily bearded men. They wore horsehide and long braids down their backs that tinkled as they marched him into the castle.

Jon didn’t resist. He was defenseless, anyway, his weapons left on the boat with his trunk of clothes and meager belongings. Once inside the throne room, the men forced him to his knees before the Dragon Queen.

His boots and trousers were waterlogged, dripping saltwater on her stone floor. He hadn’t slept in days, tossed about his small cabin by rough seas and rougher dreams. His hair was disheveled and crusted with sea salt.

And she was bloody beautiful, perched high on her throne, resplendent in her house colors, and bearing the striking silver hair and eyes of amethyst that bespoke her Valyrian heritage.

He wanted to laugh; she couldn’t look more different from him.

More strange men filled the room, two by two, the bearded men joined this time by hairless soldiers, weapons and shields in hand. No one spoke, not even the queen, not until the men were in formation, lining the walls and standing between him and the stairs that led to Daenerys Targaryen. Curiously, Jon focused on a smaller man by the steps. A dwarf, he noted, giving a start when he finally recognized a newly scarred and thickly bearded Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf seemed just as perplexed by Jon’s presence.

The queen finally spoke, drawing his attention back to her. She had a voice as smooth as honey, yet as steely as the sharp edge of a blade. “Are you aware of who you stand before?” she asked.

“Aye,” Jon replied.

She lifted her eyebrow, perhaps irked by the curtness of his response. “Oh? Tell me, who do you think it is you are speaking to?”

“Daenerys Targaryen.” Belatedly, he added, “Your Grace.”

Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. “And may I ask who  _I_ am speaking to?”

Jon didn’t immediately answer, rolling the unspoken words on his tongue, finding it hard to give voice to the truth just yet. In the following silence, Tyrion turned to the queen. “Your Grace, if I may. I know this man. This is Jon Snow. The bastard son of the late Ned Stark.”

Awareness rippled across the queen’s face, maybe even surprise, as she directed her flinty gaze back to Jon. “Is this true? Is that who you are?”

His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “No, I am not, Your Grace. Lord Stark is no father of mine.” She and Tyrion both frowned, bemused. Boldly, Jon lifted his chin, though he felt ragged and threadbare in his armor. “My name  _is_ Jon Snow, or rather it was the name given to me by Lord Stark. But I have another name, the one given to me by my mother.” The queen stared at him, waiting. So he said, “My real name is Aegon. My mother was Lyanna Stark. And my father, Rhaegar Targaryen. Your brother.”

The queen did not react. Her lovely face was a mask, smooth and unreadable. Impenetrable. The room was deathly quiet in the wake of his revelation. Finally, the queen stood from her throne. Jon held himself perfectly still as she descended the stairs, her pace unhurried and deliberate, her crimson cape trailing behind her. When she stopped before him, almost toe to toe, her soldiers didn’t move an inch, as still as statues around the room.

Up close, Daenerys was even more beautiful, her porcelain complexion delicate and unbroken, a sweet contrast to the hard, unforgiving line of her mouth.

“I see,” she said coolly, staring him down though he had a few inches on her. When she spoke again, it was in a tongue alien to his ears, the words sharp and forceful.

He understood the meaning well enough, though, when her men seized him by his arms and dragged him out of the throne room.

All the while, the queen watched him until the tall stone doors slammed shut between them.

* * *

His prison cell was dark and damp, the stones crusted with years of salt. With his hands bound in manacles and chained to the wall, Jon couldn’t move far. Not that the cramped confines of his cell provided many opportunities to explore; just a straw pallet to sleep on and a chamber pot to piss in. So he slumped his back against the wall and waited, scratching with his thumbnails at the salt crust on the floor.

Hours passed, maybe days, till finally he heard the scrape of a door opening in the distance, metal on stone. Footsteps approached, then a key turned in the lock of his door. It swung inward, just missing his booted foot, and he squinted in the sudden glare of a torch.

The queen’s silhouette took shape, outlined in the light of the fire, as she stood in the hallway, staring at him sprawled on the floor.

Setting the torch in a sconce on the wall outside, she took a step inside his cell and halted. After so long in the dark, Jon’s eyes watered, and he blinked the reflexive tears away until his sight adjusted. Daenerys folded her hands in front of her, her gaze expectant, but he didn’t bother to rise.

“Your Grace.” His voice was gravelly, hoarse.

“Lord Snow.” She tipped her head and pursed her lips in thought, the gesture derisive. “Or is it Lord Aegon? Perhaps you want me to call you  _my king_? You must forgive my ignorance on the proper honorifics. You see, as a child in exile, I didn’t receive a formal education.”

His smile was without humor. “I don’t care what you call me.” He paused, overtaken by an inexplicable urge to needle her. “Nephew, if you’d prefer.”

She wasn’t amused. Her mockery vanished, eyes growing hard. “Tread carefully, Jon Snow. This is a dangerous game you play.”

“It is no game,” he assured her.

“Lord Tyrion has vouched for you, albeit reluctantly. He says you were a brother of the Night’s Watch and suggests that perhaps your time on the Wall has addled your mind.”

Jon laughed despite himself. “Aye. He’s right about that. But I have not lied to you, sweet aunt.”

She snarled, baring white teeth. “ _Enough_. You are a cruel man. My brother’s children were brutally slayed; he had his brains dashed against a wall, and she was stabbed to death. Their mother was raped and murdered by the Lannisters’ brute of a man, Gregor Clegane.”

“His wife, Elia Martell, aye. Rhaegar had another wife, though. My mother. You’ve heard the tale, though we’ve all been misled. He didn’t abduct her. They ran off together. They were married by a septon. Had a child in secret and didn’t think to tell anyone but poor Ned Stark.” Jon swept his arms out, wrists weighed down by the heavy chains. “And now here I am, come home to my dear aunt.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face cast in shadows. The torch behind her gilded her silver-blonde hair like finely spun gold and threw into sharp relief the curves of her body, from shoulders to breasts to hips.

“You are the Mummer’s Dragon,” she said then, almost to herself. “I was warned about you. You speak nothing but lies and falsehoods. You are the son of the Usurper’s Dog. You’ve come to kill me.”

He sighed. “I’ve been called many things. Bastard, traitor, turncloak, oathbreaker. But never a kinslayer. I don’t wish to kill you or harm you, Your Grace. You are my blood.”

The queen didn’t answer his declaration, the crackling of the torch fire behind her the only responding sound. Finally, she shook her head, her mouth tightening with stubborn determination. “It’s impossible, what you claim.”

He smiled without humor. “What’s the impossible, but the things we refuse to accept? I’ve seen with my own eyes things that should be impossible. I’ve seen giants, even fought side by side with them. I’ve seen a man skinchange into an eagle. I’ve seen dead men fall and get back up.” Jon tilted his head back so it rested on the wall behind him. He met her hooded eyes. In the dark, he couldn’t read the thoughts there. “I was betrayed and killed by my own men.” He swallowed. “I died. And then I got back up.”

Silence. Without another word, Daenerys spun on her heel and slammed his cell door shut as she walked out. The turning of the key in the lock was grating, final. The light disappeared with her as she fled.

* * *

The next day, it wasn’t the queen who returned to his cell, but her men. Unchained and unfettered, Jon was led from the dungeons underneath Dragonstone, though with no weapon and armed soldiers in every direction he turned, it made no matter. He was marched across the island, up the steep, rocky bluffs where the queen waited. The wind rushed around him, nearly knocking him to the ground, but he managed to stay upright.

Until the dragons swooped by overhead.

Three giant beasts looped around the cloudless sky, their screams rending the thin air. Jon watched with awe and terror as they flew high above the earth, the sight sending him to his knees. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to weep or pray to the gods.

The men forced him to his feet again, and he stumbled all the way to the peak of the cliff where Daenerys stood. Her charcoal coat fluttered around her legs, her braid whipping in the wind. She didn’t smile when she greeted him.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? My children,” she said.

Jon looked up at the sky, squinting in the sun. Terrifying and breathtaking were more like it. “Take after their mother, I see.”

She didn’t indulge his compliment with a smile, her gloved hands tightly clasped in front of her. A dragon screeched above them, its leathern wings creating a gust of wind strong enough to pitch Jon over the edge of the cliff if he weren’t careful. He held his ground, even as the black and red beast landed behind him with two heavy thuds of its clawed feet sinking into the earth. Daenerys walked past him and sidled up to the dragon, who dipped its head in supplication. She stroked the great beast’s snout lovingly as if it were a mere puppy before she turned back to Jon.

“If you are who you claim you are, Jon Snow—if you can be trusted—Drogon will know. Come here and pet him, if you’d like.” He stared at her, dumbfounded, and she gave him a cloying smile. “There’s no need to be afraid, my lord. He won’t hurt you. If you speak true.”

Heart pounding, Jon inched closer, till it was just the dragon and he. Big, horrible eyes, red as fire, blinked at him, and the dragon let out a lusty roar, blowing Jon’s unbound hair back from his face.

When he lifted his hand, the dragon did not balk, and when he touched the dragon’s snout, Jon sucked in a breath of disbelief. The beast was hot, the scales warm to the touch, simmering against his palm and fingers. It was like holding his hands before a campfire, something he’d done many times on the Wall just for a touch of warmth. And here this beast was fire itself.

Jon stared into the deep abyss of the beast’s eyes, feeling the hot, steaming breaths on his face, feeling like he was being swallowed whole without his feet ever leaving the ground.

Too soon, the dragon pulled away, raising his head toward the sky to let out a keening cry. Then he took off, wings lifting him into the air, higher and farther away until he was just an indistinct shape in the distant. When the wind kissed his face, Jon realized his cheeks were wet. Hastily, he wiped the tears away.

He turned from his vigil of the dragon’s flight and found the queen watching him, her face pale. Coming out of her trance, she called out to her guards in that same exotic tongue as before. When the men took him away, Daenerys turned her back to him and gazed out across the sea at her dragons flying off in the distance.

* * *

Instead of the dungeon, Jon was taken to a room in the castle. His new quarters were much larger than his prison cell, though he knew the guards stationed outside his door were meant as a warning, as well as a deterrent from wandering. Still, there was a bed and windows to let in light, a privy instead of a bucket in the corner. And, he saw with great relish, a tray of food—roasted carp and root vegetables, bread, and a flagon of cool water. He descended on it eagerly, tearing off chunks of bread with his teeth, shoveling the rest into his mouth with a spoon until he all but licked the plate clean.

Belly full, Jon found his trunk at the foot of the bed, rescued from his boat. It contained the only possessions he’d brought with him from Winterfell: clothes, boots, his heavy winter cloak, a few books. Opening it, he wasn’t surprised to find his possessions had been rifled through. His weapons, Longclaw and a few choice daggers, were missing.

He was glad for the clean wardrobe, at least.

Jon lay down to sleep, his weary, cramped muscles singing in relief as he sank into the feather bed. As he curled up on his side, he thought of Ghost back in Winterfell. He’d known he couldn’t bring the large and lethal direwolf to Dragonstone, known Ghost wouldn’t have been able to make the journey on sea. He couldn’t bear to separate Ghost from the only home he’d ever known,  yet he longed for his loyal companion’s presence all the same

Jon slept for hours, the most peaceful sleep he’d had in weeks, until serving girls woke him. They knocked on his door before entering, lugging in a copper tub and pails of hot water. He watched them fill the tub, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and when they finished, they dipped him polite curtsies before sweeping out of the room.

Assuming he was meant to take a bath in preparation for something important, he stripped out of his rank clothing and sank into the water with an appreciative groan. Save for his time on the Wall, a warm bath had never felt so good. With the provided soap, Jon scrubbed himself clean, finger-combing the suds into his wet hair and beard before dunking his head under the water to rinse it.

Once his bath water had grown tepid, forcing him out of the tub, he selected a change of clothes from his trunk, woolen trousers and a quilted tunic. He didn’t bother donning the leather armor again and sat down at a writing table next to a window to wait.

Before long, guards arrived to escort him from his room. When he was taken to the queen’s chambers, he wasn’t surprised, not even to find they were alone. Daenerys stood by a window, staring out into the inky blackness of night. He wasn’t sure what she could see; perhaps only the play of moonlight on the breaking waves of the black sea below. She stood in profile to him, her pale skin imbued with warmth from a dozen flickering candles. Her silver-blonde hair tumbled freely down her back, for once not held back by braids or pins. Moving his hands behind his back, Jon waited for her to acknowledge him.

“Did you enjoy your bath?” she asked after a moment, still not looking at him.

“I did, Your Grace.”

At that, she finally looked over her shoulder at him, her eyebrow faintly arched. “Is it Your Grace now?” She turned to face him fully, threading her hands together before her. “No more ‘sweet aunt’ or whatever other nauseating endearment you can think up?”

“I’m alone with the queen, with no weapon to defend myself,” he answered, shrugging. “I’ll try to bite my tongue, lest I offend you and you have my tongue cut out for me.”

She didn’t smile, but he could’ve sworn her eyes danced with amusement. “Pity. Just as I was beginning to get used to the familial address.”

“So you believe me, then?” he asked. She looked back to the window, all trace of humor fleeing her eyes.

“I must confess, I don’t know what to believe,” she said quietly. “It seems impossible, and yet...the dragons would know. Drogon has never acted that way  with anyone but me. I’ve never seen him so...docile before. Truth be told, no one but myself has ever dared to approach him and lived.”

Jon felt his heart rate quicken. “He actually would have eaten me alive, wouldn’t he have?” he accused incredulously.

This time, the corner of her mouth turned up. “Only if you meant me harm.” She looked at him again. “Do you mean me harm?”

He let out a quiet, indignant huff. “No.”

Her violet eyes studied him, keen and searching. He dutifully endured the scrutiny. After a moment, she shook her head and asked, “Why have you come here? What do you want, Jon Snow?”

He swallowed against the tightening in his throat as he considered her question. There were many things Jon wanted. A home. Somewhere to belong. A family that welcomed him and loved him, despite his station or parentage. Someone who wouldn’t turn him away.

“I came for you,” he said honestly, voice gruff and raw.

“And what do you think it is I can give you?” she asked. Abandoning her watch at the window, she took a step closer. For the first time, he realized she was draped in a dressing gown of silk ebony. The sight made his gut tighten and his breath quicken. In that moment, he lost his train of thought, and unable to answer, he merely shook his head.

Stopping a few steps away, she regarded him curiously, her beseeching look deep and probing. Her hands hung loosely at her sides now. “What do you know of the Targaryens? Of our family?” she pressed.

 _Our family._  The words sent a jolt through him. Wetting his lips, he met her gaze. “What most people know, I suppose. Less than you. Do you want a history lesson?”

Daenerys moved closer until she stood before him. She didn’t answer his question directly and continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “I would have married Rhaegar’s son, if he had lived. We would have been closest in age. We would have been betrothed as per Targaryen tradition, in order to preserve the blood of Old Valyria.”

She paused and lifted her hands. Her fingers fluttered at the collar of her dressing gown briefly, then, she began to unfasten it in the front, slowly undoing each clasp. With every inch of creamy, naked skin revealed, Jon couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Daenerys went on. “I don’t know if Targaryens are naturally more attracted to our kin. I never felt that for my brother, Viserys, though he often told me someday we would wed. Of course, that was before he sold me like a broodmare to Khal Drogo, who raped me on a near nightly basis. Even then, I must confess I felt more hunger for my savage husband than I ever felt for my brother.”

Clenching his teeth, Jon fought a wince at the brutal honesty of her words and drew his gaze back to hers. He swallowed. “Daenerys…” he trailed off, helpless.

“Do you feel sorry for me? Don’t. I learned a thing or two about how to take my own pleasure, at least. And I swore I’d never let another man hurt me again.” Finally, she had worked loose every hook. The front of her dressing gown gaped open, and she pulled the two sides apart, just enough to reveal the pink tips of her breasts and the silver-haired thatch at her cunt. “So tell me, nephew. Do you want to hurt me, or do you want to fuck me?”

His tongue was thick and useless, and he had to swallow the gush of slaver that flooded his mouth at the sight of her naked body. Her tits were full, the pebbled nipples like little pink rosebuds that had yet to unfurl. Her belly was taut and smooth, an inviting, softly sloping path down to her cunt, where he could guess she was equally soft and pink.

Maybe it was sick. Maybe it was unnatural to want her, his own kin, like a man wants a woman. Maybe his time on the Wall  _had_  addled his mind, or maybe death had warped his once implacable sense of honor.

He didn’t know. He only knew his cock was hard and throbbing, and if she was offering herself to him, he would gladly take her.

Reaching out, Jon slipped his hands beneath her robe and around her waist, and pulled her against him. She startled when he cupped her arse, two handfuls of perfectly smooth, perfectly round cheeks. Daenerys’ face flushed high in color, pink lips parting in wordless surprise at his audacity. Her breasts were pillowed against his chest; he could feel the hard points of her nipples through his tunic. His cock surged, thick and long beneath the laced placket of his breeches, trapped between their bellies.

“I think you have your answer,” he murmured, voice low and thick with barely restrained lust.

Daenerys didn’t react immediately, her hands hovering indecisively in the air. Perhaps she’d only meant to test him. Tease him. Perhaps she’d expected him to turn her away. Perhaps she’d also had her fair share of rejection from loved ones to mistrust any and every overture.

Finally, she brought her hands up to his shoulders as she searched his face. Jon caressed her rounded bottom once more before he slid his hand to her front and down, fingers slipping through the fine hair of her cunt. When he touched her there, two fingers delicately skimming her petal-soft folds already kissed with the dew of her arousal, she sucked in a breath, her breasts hitching. When he sank his fingers inside her awaiting cunt, she dropped her head back and released a pleased mewl.

She was hot and tight, her channel squeezing his fingers as he pumped them in and out, a crude suggestion of what he wished to do with his cock. But not yet. He could wait. Instead, he worked her with his fingers, drawing her slickness from her till she was sopping wet and squirming in his arms. Banding his other arm behind her back, he leaned forward and pressed open-mouthed kisses to her bosom and the tips of her breasts, lighting a trail upward across the line of her throat, over the curve of her chin, till he found her parted lips and took her sweet mouth in a kiss.

Her tongue met his with quick, retreating brushes. Her trembling fingers twisted in the sleeves of his tunic, pulling the material tight. Frustrated with the teasing flicks of her tongue, Jon opened his mouth wider to plunge his tongue inside, kissing her more deeply, more thoroughly, as his fingers curled inside her cunt. Daenerys whimpered, her knees weakening so he was all but holding her up.

Abruptly, she broke the kiss and pushed out of his arms, forcing his hand out from between her thighs. Breathing hard, he watched her, waiting, muscles taut and tensed, like a wolf ready to spring on his prey. She shrugged out of her robe, letting it fall to the ground. Her breasts, rosy and blush-tipped, lifted with her quick pants. Her silver curls looked damp with the honeyed extract of her sex.

Instead of reaching for him, Daenerys crossed to the bed and crawled on top of the coverlets. Jon waited, eyes tracking her every move, the sinuous sway of her hips and arse in the air, as she lay down on her back and stretched leisurely across the bed. Hiking her knees up, she spread her legs to his hungry gaze, her slick, plump cunt parting in welcome. When she brought her own hand between her thighs, he nearly choked on his tongue. She slipped her fingers inside her cunt and fingered herself, her lidded gaze fixed on him. His cock was heavy with envy, wanting to seek out her heat, to be buried deep inside her, but he lingered, enjoying the way she played with herself, the soft, wet sounds of her fingers moving inside her cunt.

He’d done that to her. She was ripe for the taking.

Eyes on her, Jon stripped out of his clothes. His tunic he pulled over his head, then he quickly unlaced his trousers. Toeing out of his boots, he pushed his breeches and smallclothes down to step out of them. His cock, red and swollen, jutted out from the coarse black down between his legs. It bobbed a little too eagerly as he climbed onto the bed. Daenerys’ eyes followed him as he slinked between her spread legs, her fingers still moving inside her cunt, taunting him, beckoning him.

Jon pulled her hand away and brought it to his mouth, sliding her wet fingers between his lips, wrapping his tongue around them to suck off her syrupy juices. She was sweet, musky and tart. He wanted to taste more, to fall on the altar of her cunt and worship her with his mouth and tongue.

Pinning her hand to the bed, Jon leaned forward and took her wet sex in a kiss. Daenerys jerked beneath him with a gasp as he licked the length of her slit, delved inside the hollow between her thighs, then tongued the fleshy nub of her clitoris. He lapped at her cunt until his beard was wet with her and she was cresting the peak of her pleasure. Her thighs quivered against his ears, muffling the sound of her moans. He was seized by a sudden, savage hunger, one that wanted his cock deep inside her, moving in and out until her cunt was milking his seed from him.

As Daenerys reveled in her release, weak and sated, Jon crouched over her and drew her tit between lips and teeth, sucking hard at the stiff peak until he roused her from her languor once again. Arching against his mouth, she cried out sweetly. He took her other breast and suckled, squeezing the plentiful mound in his hand as he ravaged the tender tip with his teeth.

But when he lifted his head to kiss her again, she turned her face away, eyes squeezing shut. “No,” she gasped and wriggled underneath him, until she was turned onto her stomach. He was confused until she pushed back on her knees, pressing her arse against his cock. “Like this. Fuck me like this.”

With his hand, Jon fitted his cock between her legs, rubbed his head between her dripping wet folds, and pushed into her, the snug grip of her cunt pulling him deep inside her till he’d planted his cock up to the root. As he fucked her, she grunted with each hard thrust, her hands tucked under her breasts and twisting in the bedsheets. He stroked himself inside her cunt, slow and deep, wetting his cock with her sweetness until he moved inside her with frictionless ease. Her arse smacked against his thighs every time their hips met; it made the sweetest sound, accompanied by her soft cries.

Jon bent over her to lick up the line of her spine, kissing every ridge beneath his tongue. With her lithe, supple body bracketed between his arms, he rutted into her, her back chafing against his stomach and the dark hair circling his belly. He nudged her long silver hair out of the way with his nose and sucked at the nape of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, reaching under her to palm her breasts.

When he looked at her, her eyes were screwed shut, her cheek pressed to the bed as she bit at her lip to stifle her moans. Her teeth dug hard into the pink flesh, turning it white with the strain.

He squeezed her breast and fondled it. “Daenerys. Open your eyes.” She didn’t comply. “Look at me,” he demanded. She buried her face in the bed. Angry, Jon pulled out of her and forced her onto her back, pressing his hips into hers to stop her from twisting away. He touched his forehead to hers. “Look at me, gods damn you,” he all but begged.

Letting out a tremulous breath, Daenerys opened her eyes. When her gaze finally met his, he fixed his mouth to hers. Sliding his tongue between her lips, he slid his cock back inside her and swallowed her tiny sigh. Jon nipped at her lips, her tongue, and kissed her gently, languorously, his hips moving against hers in a similar rhythm. With another whimper, he felt her finally break. Daenerys bowed around him, her hands coming up to press against his back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingers into his straining muscles to hold him close as their bodies rippled together like waves on the sea.

He released her mouth to catch his breath, his heart beating hard in his ears, in his throat, but he kept his forehead pressed to hers, watching her hooded eyes in the candlelight. She didn’t look away or shut him out this time, her eyelids heavy, her pupils wide with naked want. Their breaths were harsh and hot between them, Daenerys issuing a soft moan every time his cock pushed into her channel. Jon moved faster, their bodies sliding together until he was no longer thrusting but rubbing against her. Her body tightened, and her cunt clenched around him, pulling him in deep as she came again.

“Oh,” she whimpered, finally losing eye contact as she thrashed her head side to side on the pillow. Jon caught her nipple between his teeth and sucked lightly, causing her to tighten around him again until gradually her cunt eased its grip, the faint flutters of her climax fading. Then he got his knees under him and fucked her with quick, shallow thrusts until he was coming as well. His seed flooded her womb, warm and wet around his cock. Daenerys held him close, pressing her face into his neck, breathing with him,  _in, out_.

Later, after he’d lifted his weight off hers to lie at her side, Daenerys rested her head on his chest, her ear pressed to his sternum, listening to his heart beat. Her fingers idly traced one of his scars, then another, and another still, until she’d touched them all. Jon stared at the ceiling, lulled into a deep, warm cocoon of tranquility as he absentmindedly combed his fingers through her hair.

“I could legitimize you,” she said suddenly, rousing him from his dozing. When he didn’t speak, she continued, “I could officially recognize you as Aegon Targaryen. As a queen, I could back your claim as my brother’s son and heir. Would you like that?”

She lifted her head to look at him. He pressed his lips together in a frown, perturbed. “I don’t know,” he said. He was still having a difficult time thinking of himself as anyone but Jon Snow.

His hesitation hurt her, he could tell; he saw the flash of injury across her face, before she turned away. He protested when she sat up, her hair, knotted from their lovemaking, falling in waves down her back. She slid off the edge of the bed and stood up, naked. The insides of her thighs were still damp with his seed and the evidence of her own body’s desire.

Confused, Jon sat up as well, watching her as she crossed to the window where she stopped, once again peering out into the night as she had when he’d first come to her room. 

“So you came all this way just to fuck your aunt, then?” she asked, her voice both light and brittle, her fear wrapped in a jest.

“If she would come back to bed, there are other things I’d like to do to her,” he replied, hoping to soothe her ire. She let out a huff, but without being able to see her face, he couldn’t tell if it was one of laughter or irritation.

Getting up, Jon padded across the floor to her. She didn’t shun him when he grabbed her hips, pulling her back against his chest. The curve of her ass brushed his spent cock, but he reacted anyway, thickening with a rush of blood. Nuzzling his nose to the crown of her head, Jon inhaled the scent of her hair, the floral, earthy oils and soaps. He swept his thumbs in circles in the dimples above her arse. Over her shoulder, he saw her nipples tighten from his gentle ministrations.

“I came for you. For my family. I hadn’t thought much beyond that,” he murmured. “If you want me in your bed, I’ll be there. Or...if you want me to scrub pots down in the kitchen, I’ll do that, too.”

This time he saw the upward twitch of her mouth, felt the laxness in her body as her displeasure waned. “I want…” She trailed off, lost in thought. It was a while before she found her voice again. “I want the throne. I want to take back what’s ours. And I want you at my side.” She turned in his arms to meet his gaze, her own eyes bright and fierce. “Be whoever you want to be, Jon. Be a bastard son of the North, or be a trueborn Targaryen son. But marry me, and we can rule as king and queen. Together. Like we were always meant to.”

Jon froze, caught off guard by her proposal. A kingdom and a marriage. One he’d never wanted, and the other he’d never thought he’d have. He opened his mouth but no words came forth. He had to shake his head.

“I...Dany…”

She seemed surprised. “ _Dany_. Only Viserys ever called me that. Years ago.”

“I’m sorry—”

She stopped him, seizing his hands and squeezing tight. “No. I like it. It seems...fitting. Call me Dany. Or aunt, or wife, or queen.” Releasing his hands, she sank to her knees before him. At the sight, his cock stiffened even more. She smiled up at him, her lovely lips parting just before they wrapped around his hardening length. “And I shall call you my king.”

As she pulled his cock into the wet heat of her mouth, he let out a rasping groan and held her head in his hands, gently encouraging her to take him deeper.

“Yes.” He gasped as she sucked him harder, throwing his head back. “ _Yes_. Dany.  _My queen_.”


End file.
